


While This City Weeps

by significantowl



Category: British Actor RPF, Irish Actor RPF, Scottish Actor RPF, X-Men: First Class (2011) RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Anxiety, Bars and Pubs, Cameos, First Time, Georgia, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Rain, Restaurants, Savannah - Freeform, Sharing Clothes, protective!Michael, southern food
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-17
Updated: 2014-03-27
Packaged: 2018-01-04 22:28:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,358
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1086383
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/significantowl/pseuds/significantowl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Michael is a bartender in Savannah, Georgia, James is filming a movie in town, and together, they weather a storm.</p><p>(For Shellikybookie's prompt in the McFassy Autumn Extravaganza: James and Michael get caught in the rain, but luckily Michael's place is close by.  He invites James to dry off and warm up.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [shellikybookie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/shellikybookie/gifts).



> I hope you enjoy, Shellikybookie! I was inspired by your prompt, and by [this article](http://www.wwd.com/menswear-news/lifestyle/scotch-rocks-3557259), which begins with James talking about the food of my people ;) Many thanks to Capriccio! ♥

_i. outside_

 

Water down the back of his neck, water in his socks, water in his eyes. James pounded through the streets as if running might make a difference, as if there were still a chance of some small part of him remaining dry. He had no-one to blame but himself. The November skies had made their intentions clear all day, hanging grey and dangerously low over Savannah's live oaks and church spires, but James was from Scotland. If he made a habit of giving in to threats like that, he'd never leave the house again.

And now the rain had come. It might have made for a pretty picture, if only he were viewing it from somewhere dry: Savannah weeping, her sky the colour of the Spanish moss streaming from the trees, of stone angels and granite obelisks, of the past that waited around every corner, unquiet and unforgotten.

One more street to go. James cut through Chippewa Square, weaving through park benches and around the statue of General Oglethorpe, founder of Georgia, whose period military uniform had probably been as miserably itchy as the one James was spending his days in on set. Low-hanging branches in the square were kind enough to keep the worst of the rain at bay, but the bricks were still perilously wet, and James went down hard, soaking the leg of his jeans and knocking the hell out of his right knee.

"Dear Christ," came a voice from behind him, Irish accent thick with shock, "what were you thinking?"

James knew that voice. One of the most important things a film crew did upon rolling into town was choose a favourite watering hole, and his had settled on a pub down on the riverfront which, to James' pleased surprise, had turned out to be a startlingly authentic slice of the British Isles for a city so staunchly Southern. That voice was the reason James could never leave with just one pint under his belt; that voice, and those fingers expertly pulling the gleaming taps, and the muscles in those arms when each brimming glass was pushed across the bar.

Savannah was a city of breathtaking loveliness, one picture-postcard moment after another, but it was the sight of that man behind his bar that never failed to leave James winded. Those fingers were wrapped firmly around his elbow as James clambered to his feet, and with no bar unkindly blocking his view, James had his first good look at the rest of him - and thank fuck, James thought wildly, for the handy excuses of running and falling, because now his breath was well and truly gone.

If the Savannah tourism board didn’t get the man on some promotional material at once, it was making a huge mistake.

“You’re all right?” It wasn't just shock in the bartender’s voice, James realised; with it came a fierce worry, ringing sharply over the driving rain.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine," James managed. "Thanks for the hand." The autumn rain had chilled him straight through, but heat rose determinedly in his face nonetheless as he stood beneath the bartender's umbrella - because of course the bartender was prepared enough to have an umbrella - and grey eyes raked over him, close and horribly concerned.

The grip on his elbow tightened. "You're sure, now?" 

"My knee's been better -" it had - "but it's also been worse, so.” James shrugged, awkward. A chance meeting like this should've been a golden opportunity, a shot at real conversation away from the demands of other customers, and from the eyes of James' co-workers, always so curious about things that deserved to be private. The potential that had been shimmering between them was a delicate thing, a soap bubble suspended in air; James didn't know how long it might last, or what path it might ultimately take, but too much attention and it would surely shatter and be gone, gone for good.

But James was the one in danger of bursting it now, because he couldn't handle the concern, couldn't handle this moment, not when his stupidity had been witnessed, and he was so completely bedraggled, hair plastered cold to his forehead, mud coating his jeans. “I’ll let you be on your way. Thanks again,” he said, pulling away. He kept the wince off his face as he took the first step - he was an actor, it was one of his skills, damn it.

Or maybe it wasn’t. He found himself supported again immediately, this time with a strong arm around his waist. "Come with me," the bartender said, and it wasn't a question. "My place isn't far."

A relief, to suddenly feel as if there were no option but to give in. Had he somehow known James needed that, when James didn't even know his name?

Of course, that was James’ fault, the fact that they’d spectacularly failed to exchange them. It had happened - or not happened - on James’ third or fourth night at the pub. By then, the closer James got to the bottom of a glass, the more his stomach tumbled in a way that had nothing to do with alcohol. After a final swallow, he sat the glass down on the dark, scarred wood of the table, then picked it up again almost immediately before any of his mates could be kind enough to offer to grab the next round.

He made it a point to sit on the outside of the booth, most nights. Fuck knew what his co-workers thought of that; probably the best he could hope for was that they'd decided he was claustrophobic. But it made it easy for James to slide to his feet, then weave through the crowd to stand at the bar.

The bartender had noticed him immediately. He'd come straight over, and James hadn't imagined the light in his eyes, the warmth in the sudden curve of his lips. He refilled James’ whisky and soda with exactly the right amount of each, and leaned in close when he passed it over, doing complicated things to James’ heartbeat. “You have some very famous friends,” he murmured, nodding towards James’ director, an acting legend and a very famous man indeed. “Should I know your name, then?”

And James had known, he’d _known_ , that it was a flirtation and a bid for information, it was clear in the bartender’s eyes and the hopeful slant of his mouth, but self-consciousness had dried his throat and he’d only managed, “No,” because that was the answer to the question as asked. No, he wasn’t that famous. He’d only been in a couple of small films. There was no reason for anyone to recognise his name.

He’d gone back to his seat feeling ill, unable to look in the bartender’s direction for the rest of the night. But in some small part, he'd been quietly relieved: for better or worse, whatever the bartender knew about him, he’d know from James himself. Not from the Internet, at least not without some thorough digging. Not from the things James had been unguarded enough to tell a reporter - or worse, that one had decided to extrapolate - once upon a time.

James had learned to be careful. He'd learned the hard way.

The bartender must have learned a few things about James by now, too. Like that James was clumsy as fuck when it came to matters like these, and to get too close was to risk becoming collateral damage. 

But he was still here.

And an easy man to lean on, his body made of long, strong lines, attuned and ready to bear James' weight and respond to his needs, be it a slightly slower stride or a brief moment's pause after a step down from the kerb jolted a little harder than expected. The wind had risen, while they’d enjoyed the trees' protection; now it dashed at their faces and tore at the umbrella until the bartender lowered it to James' height, leaving himself exposed.

"Fuckin' _no_ ," James tried to say, but his protest was cut off by a pointed and surprisingly melodic outbreak of humming as they turned onto Liberty Street, where they came to a sudden halt.

For a brief, startled moment, James had to wonder just how attuned to him the bartender actually was, because he'd brought James precisely where James’d been headed all along, the warm, welcoming entrance to his favourite café. The carved honey oak door promised old-fashioned Southern charm, but it was the incongruous neon purple sticker instructing passers-by to "EAT HERE" that had caught James' eye in the first place - he liked its brash, succinct confidence - and he'd been doing so as often as possible ever since that very first bite.

No-one made grits like that in Scotland. No-one was entirely certain quite what grits _were_ in Scotland. And while his people were skilled at frying a great many things, he'd never seen anyone fry a green tomato. They didn't know what they were missing.

Together they hurried through the door, the bartender slamming it behind them to keep the worst of the storm outside. A few wayward leaves slipped in, crimson and brown, one sticking to James' heel, the others falling soggy and forlorn to the floor. It was quiet inside the snug little café, the drumming of the rain pleasant now that it had been relegated to the background. It set a low counterpoint to the music drifting out from the kitchen, an acoustic version of something lesser-known by the Cure. 

"What, did you forget to pack your raincoat when you came to America?" This from the cafe's usual hostess-slash-waitress, who abandoned the salt cellar she'd been re-filling and joined them at the door, head tilted in disbelief. _Her_ name was Nicole, James knew that, because unlike other people he could mention, she was kind enough to wear a nametag on the job. She was beautiful, he didn't have to be hugely interested in sex with women to know that as well, with lovely dark skin, bright, welcoming eyes, and an expressive face that clearly wanted to know what the hell he'd been thinking.

She had a few things in common with the bartender, apparently.

The apologies James had been about to make for tracking mud on her charming hardwood floors died on his lips, and he ended up sputtering something about his jacket claiming to be water-resistant instead. Not that his words were deemed good enough by anyone; he got a scoff from the bartender, whose arm was still firmly settled around James' waist, and an unimpressed headshake from Nicole.

"Before you ask," the bartender said, and James glanced up before realising the bartender wasn't speaking to him, "no, I didn't make it to the shop. I'll go back out for the eggs later."

The implications slotted into place, and James' mouth fell open without his consent. "You don't work here."

"I don't?"

James flushed. "Of course you can work two places. Sorry. Never seen you here, is what I meant."

"I'm usually in the kitchen," the bartender said, grey eyes wide, forehead etched with surprise. "You eat here?"

"He likes the corner table by the window, and the fried green tomato sandwich," Nicole put in. "I had no idea you knew each other, I would've let you know whenever he came in."

Her eyes were sparkling with interest and amusement, and James' shoulders tightened. Ridiculously, he missed being out in the downpour, where at least they'd been alone. Here they'd gone from James' co-workers to the bartender's, but the attention was no less sharp, felt no easier, no safer. "No thanks. I'll just use your washroom now, if I may. Dry off a bit."

Nicole probably thought that James was lying, that he'd come in for lonely lunch after lonely lunch in hopes of being spotted by the man in the kitchen. It wasn't true, but there was nothing he could do to stop her from thinking it, or saying so to the bartender later, in all sorts of imagined detail....

"I'd like to offer you better than that," the bartender said quietly. "Is your knee up to the stairs?"

Nicole was still watching. The bartender was waiting. A lone customer sat near the back of the restaurant, a balding older gentleman with one hand wrapped possessively around a sandwich oozing with melted cheese. He was tapping away at his phone with the other hand, but still, James could only imagine he, too, was listening. It was human drama. Anyone would.

But only a tiny one, James told himself. Only a passing curiosity to everyone other than the bartender and himself. The bartender's fingers were tight against his hip, and he liked the feeling; he breathed and said, "Yeah."

"You're certain?"

"Yeah. I can tell. I'll have a right bruise, but I haven't re-aggravated anything."

The bartender's lips tightened at the word "re-aggravated," but he nodded sharply, accepting James' assessment, and said, "Nicole? All right if I-"

She rolled her eyes, and spread her hands to encompass the nearly-empty cafe. "Michael. I think I got this."

The old man chuckled at something on his phone; Nicole swept her salt cellar off a table, and started filling it again. There were two swinging doors at the back of the restaurant, and the bartender led James through them, never letting go.


	2. Chapter 2

_ii. in_

 

The staircase was narrow and steep, tucked away behind a door in the kitchen. Like the rest of the place, the kitchen was a perfect blend of old and new: gleaming modern appliances, sleek cabinets and countertops (all IKEA, if James were to guess), exposed brick walls, scuffed and worn hardwood floors. The uneven stairs were surely as original to the building as the walls and the floors, because no modern building code would possibly have approved them. James was beginning to regret his earlier confidence by the time he reached the top, but he did reach it, one hand on the rail, the other gripping the bartender's arm.

Michael's arm. The bartender was also a chef, and his name was Michael.

"One moment." Michael's shoulder pressed into James' back as he leaned forward to unlock the door. The key was a spindly piece of tarnished iron, as much of a relic as the stairs themselves, and after turning it the bartender hit it smartly with the heel of his hand, encouraging the door to swing open. "Here we are."

It was a studio flat, all of the bartender's life in one room, not a bit of it tidied up, edited, made ready for company. There was very little counter space in the kitchenette, and most of it was covered in coffee mugs and stacked plates, with jars of spices and exotic salts in every hue littered in between. A butcher block island seemed to double as a kitchen table, and it was clear Michael liked to read while he ate, a tablet, paperback novel, and newspapers all encroaching on the sole placemat. Against the far wall, the bed was a wreck of blue sheets and an even darker blue duvet, twisted together and pushed low; too easy to imagine the bartender stretched out on that wide expanse, long legs shifting... too easy and too tempting, and James jerked his eyes away.

In its bones, the room was a mirror of the café below, long and narrow, with the same warm brick walls, hardwood floors, and floor-to-ceiling windows. Dripping awkwardly on Michael's floor, unsure what do with himself in the man's home, James wandered over to the nearest of these and looked out through the rivers of rain coursing down the glass to the city below. Savannah was no longer weeping, but drowning.

There was a sudden hiss as an old-fashioned metal radiator kicked on, and then Michael was beside him saying, "For God's sake," and wrapping a thick, soft towel around James' shoulders. He drew it tight over James' chest, hand fisted in the cotton, coming to rest warm and heavy on James' breastbone. "Sit down if you need to, get your weight off that leg. You do realise it's been killing me to see you like this?”

"I - what - no - you needn't worry," James said, even as he shivered. Cold had seeped deep down into his bones, but he imagined it was the foreign sensation of warmth his body reacted to now instead, Michael's broad hand burning at the centre of his chest, the genuine caring in his voice a steady, open flame.

"You’re hurt, you’re cold, and you were ill last week. I think I will."

James frowned. “I was ill?"

To James' regret, that hand dropped, and Michael drew away to begin rifling through his chest of drawers. With his back to James, he said, "You didn’t leave the table that night, but I could tell. You were pale as could be, hardly spoke to anyone. And you'd press your hand to your chest sometimes. Made me wonder if you could breathe."

"Oh." Michael had seen all that from across a crowded room, when only one person at James' table had asked if he was certain he was okay? "No. Allergy attack. That was the day I found out I was allergic to horses. In a fairly exciting way." Cameras rolling, thirty people's time being wasted, and James struggling for enough air to say his lines. To be fair to his co-workers that night, there was a reason they'd assumed he was fine; he'd put a lot of effort afterwards into trying to prove it. "But now I have meds and all, so there won't be a repeat performance." He'd sneeze his head off, yes, but he probably wouldn't asphyxiate.

Lips pressed into an unhappy line, Michael handed over jeans, two shirts, a pullover, and a pair of thick socks. "Why doesn't that make me feel any better? Loo's back there," he said, pointing. "Use more towels, whatever you need. And don't stand there thanking me," he said, cutting James off before he'd barely begun. "Thank me by going to get warm."

James flicked his fingers in salute, cheeky enough to make Michael laugh, and obeyed.

Michael's loo was a small square box of a room, with black and white checkerboard tile floors, a pedestal sink with decades' worth of scratches on the porcelain, and a tiny triangular shower stall. James stripped off his jacket, jumper, and the two tees he wore beneath, dropping them into a soggy heap on the floor. They found themselves in good company. A tower of Michael's dirty laundry rose up between the toilet and the sink, built on jeans and towels and tees and chef's aprons.

James shucked his shoes, socks, and trousers, shivering violently when his bare feet hit the cold tile. He'd been colder than this on film sets, even wetter when the scene demanded it, and for much longer, too. Hours and hours on end. He was used to being uncomfortable; it was just another part of the job.

A quick look at his knee, and good, it was no worse than he’d thought. There was the reddish-purple blush of a bruise forming, darkest just below his kneecap, where the brunt of the impact had been. But the swelling wasn’t alarming, and although the joint was tender, James could put it through the full range of motion when he tried.

He knew what alarming looked like, what a knee that refused to bend felt like. Knew how loud it could make a person scream.

Rubbing his shoulders and arms briskly with Michael's towel, James eyed the shower now, imagining a rush of hot water, billowing steam.... He knew Michael wouldn't mind. It would be unbelievable if it weren't so obviously true. He'd offered James every support imaginable, welcomed him right into the most private part of his home, held nothing back. If it helped James get warm, he would only be glad.

A mirror hung over the sink, darkened in spots from age and wear. The view it offered was wavery, somewhat blurred, but true enough: there was James, hair like that of a drowned man's, skin chill and death-pale, body engulfed in another man's towel. Actually considering using that man's shower, definitely about to put on his clothes, and too fucking scared to tell him his name.

James buried his face in his hands so he wouldn't have to look at himself any longer, left them there to muffle the sound, and laughed until his body couldn't take any more.

When James pulled himself together, Michael's clothes were waiting, a neatly folded stack he'd placed on the toilet lid. He slipped on a white tee - it fell past his hips - then an oatmeal-coloured thermal shirt that clung tightly to his arms and chest. Next came a midnight blue pullover; James placed it aside to put on last, unfolded the jeans, and stopped dead.

A pair of boxers lay tucked between the legs. Steel grey with dark blue pinstripes. Fresh and clean, no wrinkles. There just in case his own had gotten too damp to be comfortable, he supposed.

And maybe, a tiny voice whispered, maybe because Michael would simply like for James to wear them.

James stared, cool cotton between his fingertips. Then, in a burst of defiance against his own hang-ups, and acceptance of Michael's care ( _and interest_ , that voice whispered), he kicked his off and pulled Michael's up to his hips. They fit. Easy as that.

Michael was busy in his kitchen when James rejoined him, clearing and prepping work areas with brisk restaurant efficiency. He had shed his jacket to reveal a simple black tee beneath, and wrapped a clean apron around his waist, the white fabric cutting a dramatic line across his hips, emphasizing just how narrow that waist was in comparison to his shoulders. Turning away from the counter with a cutting board in one hand, a wicked knife in the other, he paused when he saw James, the picture of arrested motion; he seemed about to speak, but James beat him to it.

"I'm wearing your clothes, I think it's past time I told you my name. I'm James. James McAvoy."

Michael's smile broke out so sharp and quick that James was unprepared for it, assuming it was ever possible to be prepared for a smile like that. It was the delight that was so dangerous; unleashed, it could consume souls. Perhaps it wasn't a nametag Michael needed, but a cautionary label sewn into his shirt, right over his heart: delight this man, and bear the consequences.

And there _were_ consequences. James' heart wasn't ready for how it would feel, to please Michael so. It swooped and fluttered, beating wild.

"Michael Fassbender." Michael's grin spread even wider, flashing more teeth. "You may have caught the Michael part."

"Might've done, yeah." It wasn't just James' heart that was in trouble. He'd certainly not been prepared for how it would feel to wear Michael's clothes in front of him, to see Michael appreciating it, eyes hungry and gleaming, taking in every detail and loving them all. That gaze doubled the weight of every stitch that hung from James' shoulders and hips, and made him hyper-aware of every inch of fabric touching his skin, _all_ of his skin, chest and legs and everything in between. _In between_ , where there was one detail, one garment, Michael could only guess at, couldn't be sure of.... James shifted, then deliberately turned his back to go drape his wet clothes on the radiator, because yes, he was stirring at that thought.

"You told me before your da was German," James said over his shoulder, laying out his jeans and jumper, careful to keep his boxers hidden from sight. "Don't know why I'm stood here surprised by the German last name."

"Ah, it's the accent," Michael said. "I'm stealth German, so I am."

James laughed. "The hair doesn't hurt either," he said, letting his eyes linger appreciatively on it as he faced Michael again. The rain had turned it dark, dulling its usual coppery shine, but he liked it that way, too.

"Suppose not." A pink tinge was creeping over Michael's cheeks - the power of _James'_ gaze, he thought thrillingly. Michael cleared his throat. "I don't know whether you're hungry or thirsty, but food and drink is what I do, so let me make something for you? And please, _please_ sit down. Wherever you’d be most comfortable. Can I get you painkillers? Icepack?"

A stool at the kitchen island proved comfortable enough, and much nearer to Michael than the sofa or the high back armchair over by the windows. James waved away the pills, but accepted a bag of frozen peas to hold to his leg. "Believe it or not,” he said, “your food is why I left the hotel this afternoon to begin with. I was coming to eat here."

"What, really?"

"Like Nicole said - I love your fried green tomato sandwich. Except I didn't know it was yours. And it wasn't raining when I left," James hurried to add, because Michael looked as if he couldn't decide whether to feel proud or guilty.

"I'll make one for you right now, I just need to grab some prepped tomatoes from downstairs - no?"

James was shaking his head. He didn't want Michael to go to any trouble, and he didn't want him to leave. This was good, this was working, the two of them tucked away behind rough brick walls and a heavy grey curtain of rain. No downstairs. No rest of the world. Just them.

"Our pimento cheese sandwich, then. It's toasted, warm you up nice and proper. I've got some of the spread up here."

The sandwich the old man had been eating in the cafe. James knew the exact taste of it, sharp cheddar blended with creamy mayonnaise, sweet peppers spiked with a dash of cayenne. He'd had it with okra fries, matchstick slivers of the new-to-him vegetable dusted with flour and fried crispy-thin and utterly delicious. He'd licked salt and cheese and spice off his fingers afterwards, unashamed.

If Michael had come out from the kitchen that day - maybe to tell Nicole something, or to write a new daily special on the chalkboard - he might have caught James in the act. And James would have blushed until his face was on fire, but Michael would have never got that image out of his mind. He had no doubt of that, now, not when Michael kept sneaking glances at James' collarbone peeking from the neck of his pullover, his fingers emerging from the too-long sleeves, the way the ribbing pulled across his chest... Michael was storing James up in his memory, bit by bit, and he didn't intend to let James go.

"You have a knack for making offers I don't want to refuse," James said, and that smile broke out once more, even more dangerous at close range. Michael passed him a cup of tea, long fingers wrapped gorgeously around the handle, then followed up with the sugar bowl, and James feared his heart might fly straight out of his chest. Thank goodness for having a place to sit, and something to do with his hands.

There was a familiarity in this, and a strangeness. He'd sat at a bar and watched Michael work many times, but never so intimately, and never had James had seen him cook. Michael was as confident with a sharp knife and a hot stove as he was with a cocktail shaker, no wasted movements or second-guessing; a blink of the eye and two sandwiches were sizzling away in a cast iron pan, and when he flipped them it was with smooth, snappy flicks of the spatula that were sights to behold. Particularly if you had James' keen interest in Michael's hands and wrists.

Just before sinking into his first bite of crisp, buttery bread and warm cheese, James startled himself by saying, "How long have you been in Savannah?" Asking personal questions, innocuous or no, was something he rarely did. To ask was to assume people wouldn’t mind answering, an assumption he would never normally make, and to invite questions in return…. he must simply be that comfortable, on this day, in this room, with this man.

He thought, from the slight widening of Michael's eyes, that Michael might even understand.

"Five years, give or take," was the answer. Michael had come over with his mum to visit some ailing distant cousin; when his mum had gone back to Ireland, he'd got himself a work visa, and stayed. It was the bar that brought in the dosh - an authentic Irish pub with an Irish accent behind the bar, on the main tourist drag of a city that prided itself on its Irish connections. "You should see St. Paddy's Day down here. Unbelieveable." Michael shook his head. "That place got this one off the ground."

"Don't sell yourself short," James said, swallowing a delicious mouthful of cheese. "Any old Irish pub couldn't have done it. You make people feel welcome. In everything you do. Even -" He pulled in a breath. "Even those of us who are fuckin' awful at accepting it."

"Now who's selling himself short," Michael murmured. But the colour was back in his cheeks, he wasn't quite meeting James' eyes, and James knew his words had meant something. Michael carried himself with confidence, but that didn't mean he didn't have his insecurities, his doubts. But what he also had was a willingness to take risks. He took them with his business. He took them with James.

It was up to James whether or not the latter would pay off.

He wanted it to. Wanted that delicate bubble of potential to land, gently, perfectly, and shine for them both. Wanted to see fulfilled the promise that lay in every thread of clothing resting on his skin; the promise of Michael's hands, his touch - it would be careful, James thought, but firm, and sure. And James wanted to do some touching of his own, too. He'd like to start with that impossible waist and never stop.

His turn for a risk. Although truly, it wasn't a risk at all.

“Take my word for it,” James said, “it’s all you.” He slid off the stool, rounded the kitchen island. As he drew close, he saw Michael's eyes light up with surprise and anticipation; he curled a hand around his hip, lay another on his chest, and felt Michael's breath catch.

The first kiss was a small thing really, just a brush of lips over Michael's warm cheek. “Compliments to the chef," James whispered, and laughed quietly into Michael's skin. "Holy fuck, that was cliché."

"But the chef loves compliments." Michael's lips tugged into a grin, and the second kiss landed high on the corner of his mouth. His lips were soft, and so, so happy, his waist was strong and firm in James' grip, his heart beat quick under James' hand, and his long fingers spanned the small of James' back.

"That's good." James' nerves sang, but his voice was steady, years of theatre training serving him well. "Since I'm behind on paying them. You've no idea how many I owe."

Michael touched a thumb oh-so-lightly to James' lower lip. "As long as I get to find out."

The third kiss was sweet and deep, lips sliding and shifting, parting. Bodies shifted too, James into Michael and Michael into James, that hand at James’ back becoming a steady, anchoring weight, his own fingers digging into Michael’s hip as he stretched up, seeking more of his mouth, finding.

They both felt it when James’ leg shook slightly, pressed together as they were; Michael was frowning when the kiss broke, forehead creased, and before he could urge James to get off his feet again, James said, “All right, I’ll go sit on the sofa, if you’ll sit with me.”

“Done.” Michael nipped in for a quick kiss, as if he couldn’t keep his lips away. But traces of his frown were still in place, and he hesitated, eyes darting over to James’ half-eaten sandwich and back again. “I’m sorry, I’m a chef, I have to ask... were you not wanting any more of your lunch?"

"Oh fuck yeah," James said, "that's coming with us," and was rewarded with one of the brightest grins out of Michael yet. Not just because he wanted to see James fed, he thought; James knew what self-doubt looked like, the way it whispered in an ear, and even though James had only abandoned Michael’s food for a taste of his mouth, he’d still abandoned Michael’s food.

Michael’s sofa was comfortably rumpled, with a pile of mismatched pillows at one end and a fleece blanket kicked down at the other. James settled down against the pillows, his back to the arm of the sofa, and Michael sat close beside him, drawing James' legs up over his lap.

Careful, firm, and sure. James’ pulse thumped so hard it hurt. There was that promise again, in the weight of Michael's hand on his leg, in the way he guided James' body, in the care he took. Soon, he thought, with each beat of his blood, with the drumbeat of the rain outside. Soon.

"You said you hadn't re-aggravated anything," Michael said, tucking a cushion beneath James' knees. "What happened the first time?"

"Oh. It was on a different film. A stunt - should've been easy, I was supposed to fall like this," he tilted his hand, "but instead I landed like this." Palm straight down, splat. "Tore a ligament. Ever done that? Hurts like a bastard."

“Christ. No, can’t say I have. Who's in charge on these film sets?" Michael’s eyes were as stormy as the clouds outside, displeasure and distress warring on his face. The heel of his hand rested above James’ knee, fingers spreading up James’ thigh; he jerked his gaze down to it, clearly afraid he was hurting James now.

“You know how it is. Accidents will happen." They happened in kitchens, too; there was a thin, shiny scar on Michael’s index finger, right above the knuckle, that had almost certainly had come from a knife. James was staring down at Michael's hand as well, but for rather different reasons, mesmerised by the sheer span of it on his leg. He took a steadying breath. "But it's only bruised today, I swear, and not terribly badly either. You can check after we're done eating, if you like.”

"Thank you," Michael said, quietly, sincerely, as if he'd just been given a gift. He took James’ plate off the coffee table and passed it over.

Being cold was a distant memory. Michael's food on his tongue, his clothes on his body, his hand still on James' thigh… he had been warmed by Michael, body and soul, and it was anticipation that took him like a wildfire now, setting his veins alight. They’d be kissing if they weren’t eating. Maybe Michael’s mouth would be on James’ neck - he obviously liked it, he was looking right now, while James swallowed. Maybe James’ hands would be beneath Michael’s shirt, fingertips drifting, learning secret skin. Maybe -

Maybe it was a damn good thing he was nearly done.

Last bite. Breathe, chew, swallow. James’ empty plate made a quiet, satisfying thunk as he dropped it back onto the table between a cluster of remote controls and a small heap of crumpled receipts, loose change, and other pocket detritus. James’ fingers automatically strayed towards the little tin of breath mints at the bottom of the pile, and Michael immediately said, “And me, please.”

Silly, perhaps, to feel breathless over the simple little action of selecting a mint and popping it into his mouth, but with intent hanging heavy in the air, as warm and enveloping as Michael’s pullover hugging his chest, and Michael's eyes on his fingers as James drew them from his lips, it felt entirely justified.

Peppermint burst like fireworks on his tongue, bright as the fire in his blood. Starved for air, starved for Michael, James reached out half-blindly, mouth finding Michael's with unerring instinct, hands falling where they pleased and oh, fuck, were they pleased to touch him again. And greedy, too, claiming arms and shoulders and the planes of Michael's back, pulling him closer, sliding further and further down.

It was Michael who broke the kiss, drawing back with a gasp for air and a broken, "Your knee. I need to see - please let me see I'm not hurting you."

James nodded, not quite able to speak. "Right," he said, when he'd caught his own breath. "I did promise."

Michael's long hands moving up his leg as he rolled up the jeans: James decided right then that whatever happened, he would not be taking off a single piece of his clothing for himself. No. He was going to let Michael remove anything that might take his fancy, any way he fancied, if it felt like that when he did.

"There, see?" His knee visible now, Michael cradling his calf. "Not so bad." The bruise was a little darker than before, but the swelling no worse; he could probably thank the frozen peas for that.

Concern and relief flickered across Michael’s face as he studied James’ knee, but he neither agreed nor disagreed, simply offered another quiet thank you. James shook his head involuntarily and said, "No, you," because Michael made it all so _easy_. He could be vulnerable, he could share a hurt. And more than that, he thought, reaching for Michael just as Michael's hands slid gently higher. He could share his history. He could share his heart.

A long kiss, a slow kiss, measured in heartbeats and the patter of rain on the roof. James cupping Michael's neck, fingers slipping through his short, soft hair; Michael's hands curving perfectly around James' hips as he carefully shifted above him on the sofa, James' legs falling open to welcome that long lean body between them.

A low sound slipped from James' throat, half need, half satisfaction. He had barely a moment to feel self-conscious about it before Michael began kissing him with new, wild urgency, abandoning James' mouth to suck messy kisses beneath his jaw, down to the hollow of his throat. James’ back arched. Michael was perfect above him, his weight delicious, and James wanted _more_ , more pressure where he needed it most, down where his cock lay heavy and trapped in his - no, they were Michael’s - jeans.

His hands had found Michael's waist again, worming their way beneath his black tee. James left that first soft touch of skin behind, sliding his hands above Michael's boxers but beneath his jeans, grasping the sweet little swell of Michael's arse and squeezing, urging him to bear down, to grind.

Michael took direction exceedingly well, rolling his hips, his cock - long and gloriously thick - pressing against James’ through their jeans, making James buck. He’d captured Michael’s roving mouth, and he stroked Michael’s tongue again and again while his fingers dug helplessly into Michael’s cheeks.

Perfect, it was perfect, until it was all suddenly a bit too much. James tipped his head back, breathing hard. His thighs clenched against Michael's hips, an unconscious effort at holding him still.

Michael stopped at once. _So_ good at taking direction - no. So good at understanding what James needed, with or without words. He propped an elbow onto the sofa cushion next to James' head, gazing down, a quiet, private smile on his lips. On a different day, James thought his face would be bathed in light streaming in through the picture windows; today’s storm meant shadows, but they were the friendly, comforting sort, a blanket wrapped round them both.

Incredible, that stepping out of his hotel today had brought them to this moment. Here, now, sharing this.

Slowly, eyes drifting down to follow his hand, Michael smoothed a palm up James’ side, across his chest, over his stomach. There was a deliberateness about the journey, James felt, as if every dip and valley were being carefully, thoroughly mapped. Michael, building a sense memory: this was what James’ body felt like in Michael’s clothes.

James' eyes fell shut. He didn't want Michael to stop, but his rapt attention was like a summer sun, hot, beautiful, blinding, and almost more than James could take. When Michael's hand finally paused, resting low and heavy on James' stomach, every passing heartbeat throbbed between his legs; what would Michael do next, would his hand go lower, could James actually survive that same kind of slow exploration over his cock -

Michael pushed up the sweater, pushed up the shirts beneath, and James shivered, eyes opening, disappointment, relief, and the thrill of Michael's hands on his skin chasing each other all the way down his spine.

"I'm not cold," he whispered, before Michael's forehead could wrinkle with worry, and stretched up for a kiss that left them both gasping.

Michael's hands felt so right on his body, and _fuck_ did Michael's body feel wonderful under his hands, slim and strong and sculpted. James wasted no time shoving Michael's tee up and flinging it away. Those shoulders, that chest, the muscular ladder of his ribs, all were deserving of study, and James' hands could only do so much alone. He dove in with his mouth, dragging kisses everywhere he could reach, feeling it in his cock when it made Michael squirm, hips twisting against him.

Every sound chanted, _more, more, more_. The relentless drumming of the rain, Michael's harsh, irregular breathing, the little wet noises made by James' mouth. The rush of his blood in his ears as Michael's wonderful fingers travelled down, down, finally flattening themselves over James' cock.

If there were no jeans in the way, those fingers would curl around him so fucking beautifully. James' breath hitched, nearly a sob, and he gave up on kissing altogether as Michael began tracing the outline of his cock. Up, over the tip, and down. Up, over, and down. Making another memory, James thought, but thank all the fucking saints he didn't spend as long on this one, and soon those fingers were popping the button and easing down the zip.

"Oh _shit_ ," Michael whispered, more breath than words, and he shoved the jeans over James' hips with his mouth still open, eyes hungry and reverent for what lay beneath. Michael's own steel-grey boxers, and James in them, his hips and waist and pale thighs, the soft weight of his balls and the hard length of his cock.

For a long, frustrating moment, Michael only looked. And when he delicately trailed a finger over James' shaft - dipping into the opening of the boxers when it came to that, the barest brush over skin - they both sucked in audible breaths when it jumped.

Michael hesitated, hand hovering in the air above him. James found himself nodding, not knowing whether he meant "again, again," or "please, pull it out," he just _wanted_ and Michael gave, gently thumbing his tip, making an already dark spot on the cotton darker, damper, and James dug his fingers into Michael's shoulders and held on.

Then Michael dipped his head down, and began again with his mouth.

James writhed. No way he could stay still, not with that head between his legs, that wide gorgeous mouth open, lipping over his straining cock, that flat tongue dipping the opening every now and then to taste skin, one small, lucky spot down near the base. When Michael went lower, mouthing at his balls, James pulled in a ragged, shallow breath and pushed clumsily at Michael's head. Michael looked up, eyes glimmering in the shadowy light, and James dragged him up for a kiss, sucking hard on Michael's bottom lip while his cock throbbed.

Not going to come yet. Not going to let himself. James couldn’t go first, not so soon; he couldn’t bear the thought of that strange half-quiet after, his body calmed, his breathing slow, his blood silent, but Michael still desperate, and the pressure all on James to get him where he needed to be. James who didn’t even really know, yet, what Michael liked….

Stop worrying. Start with his cock.

James worked Michael's jeans open, then took a moment to reach into his boxers and simply hold him, enjoying the thick swelling weight of him, while Michael breathed against his mouth. A slow stroke next, experimental, and Michael pulsed promisingly in his hand. Two more, just the same, before James scrabbled at Michael’s boxers and jeans with his free hand, reluctant to let go - god _damn_ , was Michael’s cock worth holding onto - but he had to eventually, while Michael helpfully kicked his clothes away.

He leaned over James, cock jutting out long and tempting, tip brushing James' stomach. When Michael reached for him, James half-expected to feel fingers curl over the boxers' waistband and drag them over his hips; but no, Michael pulled James' cock out through the slit in the front instead, leaving him standing free, hard and flushed and curved. He held James down at the base in a warm, tight fist, and James closed his hand around Michael in the same way, and for a long, expectant moment, they simply breathed.

This was how James needed it to be: the two of them together, in every way, as much as possible. And once again, Michael - so intuitive, so good at _getting_ James - simply understood.

Michael leaned in further, capturing James' lips in a swift kiss, still holding his cock in that perfect grip. "Knee?" he whispered, drawing back.

"It's fine."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah." Maybe if Michael's hips weren't so impossibly narrow, he would be feeling more strain from this position, but the ache was mild and distant, almost entirely lost to his arousal.

"You'll tell me if you're hurtin'," Michael said softly, accent rolling over the words, and James nodded. They shifted closer, James blanketed by Michael's warmth from chest to thigh, his cock pressed beneath the hard hot length of Michael's. A slight adjustment of his grip let James wrap his hand around them both, and above him, higher on their shafts, Michael did the same.

"Good?" Michael asked. He could've meant so many things by it, and probably did - do you like this, are you comfortable, do you want a condom, do you need lube, am I touching you right - and James said, "Good," because absolutely everything was.

Slow strokes at first, much like the ones James had given Michael before, James' cockhead rubbing between his stomach and Michael's length on every pull. Good, good, so good, and James could get off from a long, slow, unyielding tease, but not everyone could, so he put an extra little snap in his wrist just to see what would happen. It drew a deep grunt out of Michael, and he matched James' new pace on the next stroke, just that little bit firmer, faster. Michael's cock was so fucking long that James realised, belatedly, that neither of their grips were reaching his tip; James reached down with his other hand and circled it with finger and thumb, slipping down the foreskin, making a ring for Michael to fuck into.

Michael panted against his cheek, damp noisy puffs of air. He was thrusting now, into James' fist and cock and stomach, and James tried not to follow suit, knowing he was close, trying to hold the edge; he pressed his thumb to Michael's slit and swore his thanks to the fucking heavens when Michael came two thrusts later, a hot rush over James' fingers.

Every muscle in James' body was drawn tight, and he snapped his hips up, groaning so deep in his throat he barely recognised the sound as his own. Michael's cock was softening against his, but his grip was still firm, and rutting up against the hard flat planes of his stomach was all James needed to come and come hard, his head knocking against Michael's shoulder while he shuddered through it.

James wound down slowly, breath gentling, heart calming, limbs warm and loose and heavy. The air smelled like Michael, musk and spice and sweetness; every breath pulled Michael into his lungs, brushed his chest up against Michael’s, brought them that little bit closer together. But there were practicalities to take care of, too, and as James dragged his sticky hands over the boxers - not that it did much good, ruined as they were - Michael rolled to one side, reaching over the edge of the couch, and snatched up his t-shirt to do the same.

“Well," James said, surveying the damage, "I’ll need to trouble you for another pair of boxers, maybe. Or do you think I’m too reckless a borrower to be trusted?”

“I think I’ll let you choose the colour this time.” There was a grin on Michael’s lips when he captured James' in a kiss.

And James was smiling, too. There'd been times when he cracked a joke after sex on purpose, as a deliberate attempt to smooth over the awkwardness of lying there naked with someone else, especially someone new. But he felt none of that today. He was sticky, messy, hanging limply out of Michael's boxers, but he didn't even feel like tucking himself away. James rolled closer to Michael, feeling the soft, gentle press of their cocks together instead. Intimate, unguarded, right.

"And my shower, too, you're welcome to that," Michael said, making James smile all over again, remembering how he'd thought so from the start. "With or without me in it," Michael added, and James kissed him, parting his lips in invitation, letting that be an answer.

“You know, I’m going to have to give Nicole so much time off,” Michael mused later, when they came up for air, his thumb sliding idly down James’ neck.

 _How rare is this, that you actually take any for yourself_ , James wondered, suddenly protective, _how much do you even sleep, running two businesses_ \- but he gave a quiet laugh, and said, “Who says she’s gonna wait for you? I’d put my money on her taking it whenever she feels like it.”

“Good point.” Tracing over James’ collarbone now, he added, “And speaking of Nicole… if you were wondering - if you’d rather - my kitchen has a back door. Today or anytime.”

Relief washed through James, unexpected and sweet. Walking past Nicole, after this, whether in Michael’s clothes or his own…. It wasn’t that James couldn’t do it. It wasn’t that he was afraid; they’d caught that shining potential between them now, and it felt safe in their hands, shielded and whole. But being able to do it wasn’t the same as being able to do it with grace, and James would be awkward, he’d feel it in his stomach, show it in his flaming cheeks and stumbling words. It would be so much nicer to leave here today without his latest social fumbling on his mind, thinking only of this, only of Michael….

Who was looking at him now, with steady, serious eyes. “I feel lucky,” Michael said, closing his hand around James'. His voice was bare, honest, soft as the pattering rain. “And I promise you, nothing leaves this room, unless you want it to. Ever.”

“I trust you.” James turned his hand, lacing their fingers together, proving the point. "But it's not luck. Please don't think that, don't call it that," he said, with a fierceness that startled him, but Michael was selling himself short again, and he _shouldn't_. "Running into each other today, yeah, but this... this is because you're you." James kissed Michael again and made it deep, free hand cupping Michael’s cheek, holding him, keeping him.

When the kiss finally ended, James tucked his head onto Michael's shoulder, into the curve of his neck. It was a good place to be, Michael's skin beneath his cheek, his pulse thumping warm and steady against James' brow, and to his surprise he found words flowing, as easy as rain down a windowpane.

“I've always done it, I think. Let my head get caught up in what other people’ll think if I do this or say that.” A memory, from when he was so small he was still living with his mam: her upset at tea over grownup things, little James wondering, _Do I eat all my peas, will she like that? Or will she worry that I'm too hungry, and no more left on the cooker to give me...._ “Sometimes I’m better at turning it off. Sometimes I’m worse.”

Michael squeezed James' fingers and said, quietly, “It makes you good at your job, I’m guessin’.”

“Maybe,” James said, turning that around in his mind. It was a nice thought. He did do it all day, and it was much more fun when the camera was rolling, because if he did it well, the end result was always a character, never him. He loved that, creating something out of himself, giving it life. “Yeah. Maybe.”

“I’m going to take that as, ‘Fuck yeah, it does.'"

“Well. Some parts of my job.” James felt himself flushing. If Michael had seen any of his work, he didn’t know about it, but it was certainly out there, if Michael had chosen to look…. "I did this magazine interview, once. She asked about where I grew up and how I grew up, and I was tit enough to answer. Just facts, you know, two sentences tops, but that was all it took. So then she wrote this sad tragic bullshit interpretation to go with it, all emotional starvation and literal fucking starvation, it was like I was Oliver fucking Twist by the time she was done. And the people who were with me every day growing up, my grandparents, my sister - they knew it was bullshit, they knew what I'd said and what I hadn’t, but they still didn't deserve to have to read something like that."

He'd felt the tension rising in Michael as he spoke, in the arm tucked around his back, and the hand still holding James’; he felt Michael let it out, now, on a long exhale before he spoke, calm and certain. "It wasn't your fault."

James shrugged. "Yes and no. My agent wanted to go to the interview with me, but I wouldn’t let her. I was worried about what my mates back home would say, reading shit like, 'McAvoy coughs, and his agent appears with a bottle of water....' But now. Now you could probably find every interview I’ve done in the past two years by doing a search for ‘McAvoy’s agent halts this line of questioning.’"

“Good.” Michael shifted, pressing a kiss to James’ temple, to the crown of his head. “But I won’t. I’d much rather talk to you.”

James rose up for a kiss, letting his lips shape his joy and thanks and eagerness to talk to Michael, too. Six more weeks on this film, six more weeks in Savannah, talking and touching and sharing with Michael, and after that… His flight out didn’t have to be the end, unless they wanted it to be. He had eight weeks in Germany after that, but Skype was great for talking, and he could imagine Michael curled up right here on the couch with his tablet, relaxed and happy, with a sweet, private smile….

He rested his head on Michael's chest when they parted, soaking up the steady sound of his heartbeat. Soon, they'd get up. They'd take that shower. He'd give himself up to Michael's hands again, there in the room where he'd first decided to let go, and while the hot water beat down upon them he'd let Michael wash his chest and stomach and anything else he liked, slow kisses in between, warmth in his skin and blood and soul.

It wasn’t only the past that waited in Savannah, around corners, in old houses, in leafy squares. He’d missed half the picture, but James could see it now, in Michael’s eyes, in Michael’s smile, glimmering through the rain. The future had been waiting, too.


End file.
